


Silver Lining

by DarkHeartInTheSky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Caretaker Dean, Getting Together, Human Castiel, Hurt Castiel, M/M, No Mary though, Post-Season/Series 11, Supportive Sam, Worried Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 22:38:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8640871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkHeartInTheSky/pseuds/DarkHeartInTheSky
Summary: After Castiel is severely injured during a hunt, Dean and Sam have a talk.Dean realizes what it is he really wants.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [XX_InfinityWriter_XX](https://archiveofourown.org/users/XX_InfinityWriter_XX/gifts).



> Everyone go wish a very happy birthday to my beautiful friend [xx_InfinityWriter_xx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/XX_InfinityWriter_XX/profile)! All she asked for was a happy, fluffy destiel story! Sorry hun, looks like I got some angst in with your fluff, but I hope you enjoy it!

Cas’s first hunt as a human was a werewolf. Dean picked it specifically because it was supposed to be easy. Find the prep, silver bullet to the head, then they’d have a beer and go home.      

                Easy peasey, right?

                Of course, it’s their life, and their rotten luck and nothing ever turns out how it’s supposed to be.

                Somehow, they ended up on a rickety, wooden bridge, hung above a shallow bedrock, in a town that was seeing its first rainstorm in weeks. It was a torrential downpour. The wind was howling. The water hit Dean’s skin like tiny needles, and it was ice cold.

                The werewolf was rogue, foaming at the mouth, snarling, yellow eyes the only part of it visible in the storm. Dean couldn’t see where Cas or Sam were, and didn’t dare shoot until he knew he wouldn’t accidentally get one of them in crossfire.

                And then the rain let up just a little—just enough—for Dean to see it. The werewolf was hunched over, its arms dangling low and away from its body.

                Dean raised his gun, ready to shoot—and then the werewolf changed direction. Instead of going for Dean, it turned one-eighty and went straight for Cas. Cas, who was still uneasy on his feet, still not quite used to his new human body and the way it moved and its slower reaction times.

                Cas wasn’t ready for this hunt, Dean thought too late.

                The werewolf charged Castiel, colliding into him—and over the bridge.

                A shot fired as they crashed towards the shallow bedrock and it echoed in Dean’s ears.

\--

                It was three weeks later when the doors of the bunker opened again, light filtering the dust that had collected during their absence.

                “This isn’t necessary,” Castiel told Sam. “Put me down.”

                Dean rolled his eyes before turning around to meet his brother and Castiel. Castiel was leaning heavily against Sam. In fact, Sam was supporting almost all of Cas’s weight. The giant, plaster cast on covering Cas’s right foot, thigh to ankle, still resisted any sort of pressure on it.

                “What are you gonna do?” Dean said, trying—god, he was trying—to keep the impatience out of his voice. But it had been three weeks already of this shit, and Dean wasn’t sure how much more he could take. “You gonna get down those stairs all by yourself?”

                Dean didn’t miss the look of consternation that flashed on Cas’s face—it was brief, but it was there, before Castiel schooled his expression back into his Resting Bitch Face. He swallowed and shifted uncomfortably.

                Sam had one arm wrapped all the around Cas, holding onto Cas’s opposite hip; Cas’s arm was thrown around Sam’s neck. They were tangled together like a pretzel, and in any other circumstance, it would’ve been funny.

                But there was nothing funny about this at all.

                Dean had watched the werewolf tackle Cas like a linebacker in the heat of roid rage, knock him over the railing and watched the both of them fall head first towards a shallow ravine.

                Sam had to physically restrain Dean from jumping down the railing and towards Cas—Sam had made them take the long way around, and Dean had hated his brother for it, unable to keep the thoughts out of his mind as each footstep sent a jolt up Dean’s spine, a second between him and Cas, that Cas may not have.

                It took them almost ten minutes to get down where Cas was, on top of the dead werewolf. There had been so much blood—from the werewolf, but from Cas, too, and it took Dean a second to see it, because there was so much blood everywhere, staining the ravine water pink.

                Sam made a gagging sound, and spun around, bent over his knees, dribbles of vomit pooling past this lips.

                Then Dean saw it, the way Cas’s leg was bent backwards, the hint of bone sticking out through his damp pant legs.

                What happened after that was a blur—there must have been an ambulance, because Dean thought he could remember chasing after a siren because they wouldn’t let him ride with Cas; but he wasn’t sure if that really happened, or if it was just a dream. There were doctors that Dean almost punched, because they threw around amputation like it was just a word and not a death sentence to someone as stubborn as Castiel. There was waiting—so much waiting, just one, long continuous wait in an uncomfortable chair with nothing to occupy himself except two year old editions of _People’s Magazine._

                Dean knew his fair share of anatomy—the places you could shoot without killing, the places that would kill instantly; he knew battle field medicine, how to suture up wounds, and how to slow down bleeding.

                But right now all that he knew was Cas had a piece of metal in his body that ran from his hip to his ankle, and he would probably walk with a limp for the rest of his life. He did have ten stitches in his head from where he cracked it open, but those had been removed before Cas was discharged, and the only evidence they’d been there was the small bald spot where they had to shave the hair to put the stitches in.

                In about eight weeks, they’re going to have to drive back to the hospital, so Cas can have another surgery to get all the metal and pins removed from his bones. And then there’d been weeks of physical therapy—and that was still so far away, it wasn’t worth thinking about. Dean had to force his thoughts away onto more immediate matters: like getting Cas down the stairs and to the couch.

                Dean walked over to Cas’s other side and ignored Cas’s protests. He put his arm under Cas’s good leg, and Sam took the other one, careful not to put extraneous pressure anywhere. It was awkward and incompetent. Cas couldn’t bend his bad leg at all, so it was stretched all the way out with Sam’s support, and Dean had one arm hooked under Cas’s knee, the other at Cas’s back.

                Cas clearly wasn’t happy about it, and again, under different circumstances, the undignified look on Cas’s face would have been hilarious. But at least he kept his trap shut, because Dean really didn’t think he could take hearing Cas refuse help he obviously needed.

                “Okay, hold on,” Dean said, and it was an awkward shuffle to get Cas to the door. Dean was sweating and aching before they even got to the stairs.

                “How are we gonna do this?” Sam said, sweat pooling at his eyebrows.

                “Just do it,” Cas said, face pinched in pain.

                Dean swallowed. Suddenly, the staircase he must have climbed three or four times a day seemed immensely longer. There must have been a hundred steps.

                “Slow and steady, I guess,” Dean said. He looked at Sam. “Ready?” He and Sam had to sidestep down the entire staircase. Dean’s arms trembled—Cas was a lot heavier than he looked, and Dean’s worst fear in that moment was dropping Cas and hurting him really badly.

                Finally, finally, after they got down the last step and onto solid, even ground, Dean and Sam found a second wind, picked up their pace, and managed to carry Cas the rest of the way to living room, adjacent from the library, and set him on the couch.

                “Whew,” Dean said, wiping the beading sweat off his brow. “Man, you gotta lay off the junk food.”

                Castiel gave new meaning to the phrase ‘if looks could kill’, and if he was angeled up, Dean would’ve probably turned into a pile of salt.

                Then again, if Cas was angeled up, they wouldn’t be in this situation to begin with….

                “You need anything?” Dean asked, eyes unable to keep away from the giant bulk of Cas’s leg, propped up on the arm of the couch.

                “No,” Cas groaned, pressing his face into arm rest. He sounded his usual exasperated self, but Dean was still reluctant to leave, suddenly aware of once again how touch-and-go it had been, how close he’d come to losing Cas _again._ And to have survived archangels and Lucifer, and Leviathan and the Darkness, to lose Cas to a werewolf of all things….it would have been insulting, on top of devastating.

                “You sure?” Dean asked. Sam’s presence in the room was heavy and brooding. It was like suddenly becoming aware of an ache in your body, and then not being able to ignore it, no matter what. Dean tried, tried, not to look out the corner of his eye and see his baby brother standing on the threshold of the room, watching them. “Anything? Are you hungry? I could whip something up real fast, anything you want.” Cas had to be starving, right? Weeks of hospital food and take-out had to have made the poor guy sick; nothing beat home-made cooking, and Dean had an industrial kitchen at his disposal.

                “I said I’m fine,” Cas almost screamed. His voice just barely stayed away from reaching that point, but the intensity was there. Dean felt like he’d been slapped. “I’m fine, Dean,” Cas whispered. “I just want to sleep.”

                Dean took a single step back. “Okay. Um. You good here? We can move you to your bed if you want.” Dean’s back already began to protest at the thought, but he shoved it down. His own discomfort was minimal right now. Right now, Cas was priority number one. His comfort above anything.

                “Just leave me here,” Cas said, the bite more prominent in his tone than ever. The tone that Dean knew better than to argue against.

                Dean said nothing. He tried, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. He stood there like a moron for a full three seconds before he nodded, but Cas couldn’t see because his face was smushed against the arm rest once more.

                Dean backed out of the room, trying to avoid Sam’s gaze burning into his back.

\--

                “Just give him some time, Dean,” Sam said. Dean had his back turned to his brother, stirring the soup more often than necessary. Cas had said he wasn’t hungry, but he probably would be when he woke up—and the pain meds he was on made him nauseous, so Dean wanted to make something that would be easy on Cas’s stomach. Something that wouldn’t make him sick and despise food.

                “He’s gotta be just as wigged out as we are. He went from this invincible warrior to….”

                “To a crappy, fragile, sack of meat, human.”

                “I wasn’t going to say _that._ ”

                Dean shrugged. “It’s true.” He’d seen Cas take bullets to the chest, fall out of a ten-story window, sat by Cas as blood spewed out past his lips so long it seemed like it’d never end—and he always came out with nothing worse than his hair a little disheveled.

                Cas was human now. And humans died from such simple, stupid things, like car accidents, or influenza, or an allergic reaction, or food poisoning. Too little food or too much; too little water or too much. And sometimes there wasn’t a reason at all. Sometimes the body was just done.

                And Dean was terrified.

                Because he never really had to worry about Cas before. Cas was tough, and strong, and smart; he could take care of himself, handle whatever shit got thrown at him.

                But all Dean could think about was Cas lying in that river, not moving, his blood pinking the water.

                Dean put the ladle down and forced himself to walk away from the stove. He put his hands on the table and bent his head down, looking at his feet.

                Cas was in the bunker. He was in the safest space in North America. He was okay. He was alive.

                But it had been too close a call. And the oncoming eight weeks seemed like a mountain Dean would have to climb. Eight weeks of handling a grouchy Castiel, of helping him with all the mundane necessities that came with being human—and it tore at Dean’s heart to see his friend, who had once been a force of heavenly wrath, so dependent on such trivial tasks.

                “It’s going to be okay,” Sam said, sighing. “We’ll get through this, Dean. I mean, we’ve taken down God’s sister! We can handle this.”

                Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know man, I think a grouchy Cas can give Amara a run for her money.”

                Sam snorted. “Maybe—but at least he doesn’t want to kill us. Well, at least not yet. We’ve got that going for us. At least for a little while.”

                “Yeah, like the next two hours.” Dean sighed and went back to the stove. He turned the burner off and began to ladle the broth into bright green bowl. “Wish me luck,” Dean said, as he carried the bowl to the living room.”                                                                                                                                                                                   

\---

 

                      “I made dinner.”

                      Dean put the bowl on the small table and backed away. Cas stared at the bowl, and Dean saw the hunger glow in Cas’s eyes.

                      Cas struggled to push himself into a sitting position. Dean made a motion to help, but Cas glared at Dean minutely, and Dean backed off. It took nearly a minute, but eventually, Cas had his back propped against the arm rest and was reaching for the steaming bowl.

                 “Thank you, Dean.”

                  Dean cleared his throat. “Sure, no problem. You, uh, you good? Need anything?” He couldn’t stop staring at the giant, plaster cast slathered onto Cas’s leg; couldn’t imaging the long piece of metal that filled his bones where God’s grace used to be.

                 “Do you want to sit here?” Cas said, blowing gently on his spoon.

                “Uh,” Dean blanched for a minute. “Your leg.”

                “I can move it.”

                 Dean shook his head. “No, doc said to be careful about bumping it around. I’ll grab a chair from the kitchen.”

                 Dean turned around and left before Cas could say anything else.

                 He grabbed one of the plastic chairs from the kitchen and carried it into the living room, ignoring Sam’s raised eyebrow, and the own flush that was beginning to spread across his cheeks.

                Dean put the chair down next to the couch, positioned next to Cas’s feet.

                “So, what’s on?” Dean said, looking at the TV. The blue glow of the TV cast shadows across Cas’s face. Some woman was screaming at another woman in Spanish, and soon she began to throw plates down on the ground.

                “Esperanza just discovered that her best friend is sleeping with her husband.”

                “Bitch,” Dean said, resting his elbow on his knee.

                Dean tried to keep up with the dialogue, but his Spanish was mediocre, and the actors were speaking way too fast. When Esperanza’s husband, Ricardo, came in with a knife, Dean felt completely lost.

                “Woah, now, wait a minute,” Dean said. “He’s gonna knife Esperanza?”  
               

               “No,” Cas said patiently. “He’s going to kill Maria and then himself.”

                “Why?”

                “ _Juntos in la muerte,”_ Cas said, which Dean recognized from the show, but he still didn’t understand what it meant. “So that he and Maria will be together in death.”

                “But he could just kill Esperanza and then they can still be together!” Dean gesticulated to the television set—the characters were still just standing around talking a mile a minute, not making any actions, and Dean scoffed at that. If _his_ life were a TV show, it wouldn’t be the kind where people stood around and talked about doing things. He’d actually do them.

                “I believe it’s supposed to be romantic,” Cas said unsurely.

                Dean huffed. “Guess romance is dead, then.”

        The episode ended on a cliffhanger, with Esperanza and Ricardo stabbed and lying on the floor before the screen cut to black, and a voice came over saying, “ _Sintonice la próxima semana_.”

            “Huh,” Sam said, coming into the living room. “I didn’t know we got the Spanish channel.”

            “It’s riveting,” Dean said. “Everybody dies. What kind of lame show is that?”

            Sam huffed, but didn’t add anything. “Well, I’m off to bed. Don’t you guys party too hard.”

            “Don’t be jealous cause you never got invited to the keggers in college.”

            “College isn’t about throwing keggers, Dean; I was studying.”

            “Nerd,” Dean huffed. “I’ve seen a lot of college movies, and they’re never studying.”

            Sam rolled his eyes. “Good night guys.”

            “Good night, Sam,” Cas said.

            The television screen changed and began to play some Spanish cartoon that better matched Dean’s fluency. Bright colors danced across the screen, the characters spoke in high-pitched voices, and the plot was simple and straight-forward. No unnecessary drama.

            Dean wasn’t sure how long he and Cas sat there in a comfortable silence, just watching the TV; but eventually he looked over and Cas was asleep, turned towards the back of the couch.

            Dean sighed and turned off the TV. He grabbed the blanket draped over the back of the couch and put it over Cas, tucking it into the corners.

            “”Night, Cas,” Dean muttered, realizing only then how tired _he_ actually was. He turned the light off and went to his room, eager to get a good night’s sleep for the first time in weeks. He fell face first onto the bed, barely remembering to toe off his shoes before darkness weighed down his eyelids as he sank into the comfort of the memory foam.

 

            Dean was woken up by an incredibly loud _thud._ Dean was out of bed and at the door before he was consciously awake, his gun in his hand. He waited by the door for a second, straining to hear for any other sounds, before he was out the door, gun pointed straight. Dean checked behind him towards Sam’s room, but Sam never came out, and Dean resisted rolling his eyes. Sam was starting to get soft; their dad would be rolling in his grave if he knew about this.

            Dean kept his footsteps quick and feather-light, prepared for an intruder at every corner, until he came into the sitting room—

            And Castiel was on the ground, the blanket half on him, half hanging off the couch.

            “Shit,” Dean said, rushing to his friend. He put the gun on the nightstand and fell to his knees. “Cas, what happened? Are you hurt?”

            “I’m fine,” Cas said, eyes pinched shut.

            “Your leg!” Dean was running his hands down the cast, horrors of worst-case scenarios playing through his mind like a movie; had Cas re-broken his leg, with the metal rod still inside? Or there was his head, still sensitive from the stitches. Had he re-opened that wound?

            “It’s fine,” Cas said, breaths coming in shallow, rapid gasps.

            “What happened? Did you fall off the couch?”

            Cas swallowed, eyes wild, cheeks coloring scarlet. “I need….bathroom?”

            Dean was silent for a moment. “Oh,” he said eventually. “Yeah, of course.” Of course. It seemed so obvious now, Dean wasn’t sure why he didn’t even think of it to begin with. Cas was human. He ate, and slept, coughed and sneezed, and all the other biological processes that came with being human.

Dean was stupid. Of course Cas was going to need to use the bathroom eventually. And Dean had put Cas on the couch, about as far away as they could get from the bathrooms except for being outside. He was a moron.

“Why didn’t you call for me?”

            “I didn’t want to wake you.”

            “Yeah? And how were you planning on making it to the bathroom?”

            “I was working on it.”

            Dean sighed. “C’mon. Can you make it?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “Okay,” Dean said, clearing his throat. “Sit up.” Dean pulled Cas into a sitting position, and then hoisted Cas up to his feet. Cas fell forward, pressing against Dean's chest, and Dean could feel the tension slipping out of Cas’s body.

            “Hey, hey, hey,” Dean said, tightening his grip on Cas’s arm. “That’s fine, lean against me. Hold on. Just like that.” Cas had Dean’s arm in a death grip, and even without his angelic strength, it hurt, but Dean bit his tongue. “Okay, grab the crutch. Put it under your other arm—just like that, yeah. You good?”

            Cas nodded.

            “Okay, let’s go.”

            Cas set the pace, tiny, slow steps, but Dean didn’t push. Cas had to swing his casted leg awkwardly like a pendulum, and it landed with a heavy thud against the floor with every step. Dean helped support Cas, and when they got to the small set of stairs that led down to the bedrooms and bathrooms, they slowed their pace even more, but Dean still didn’t complain. He wondered though if Cas’s natural stubbornness applied to his bladder too.

            When they finally got to the bathroom, Dean decided he really needed to have a talk with Sam—how Sam managed to continue sleeping with all the noise Dean and Cas were making, Dean had no clue. But it was a bad habit that needed to be abolished ASAP.

            Dean kicked open the bathroom door and helped Cas waddle to the toilet.

            “Uh,” Dean said.

            “I can manage from here,” Cas said, chest heaving. Sweat marred his brow, and his face was flushed with exertion.

            “You sure?” Dean asked. It would be awkward as hell, but if Cas needed the assistance, Dean would just have to suck it up.

            “Yes,” Cas said, and it sounded like a plea. Dean backed off, palms facing forward like he was approaching a timid animal.

            “Okay. I’m just gonna be outside the door, then. Let me know….”

            Dean backed out of the bathroom, closing the door gently in front of him. He left it open just a breadth, though, so he could hear if Cas fell again. The solid steel doors that barricaded every room suddenly seemed like a bad idea, and Dean wondered what the Men of Letters were thinking when they built this place. If something got in—that was a strong if, considering the bunker was more secure than the freaking Pentagon, but _if_ something got in….it could be very possible that no one would know.

            Dean swallowed and knocked on the door after a few moments. “You done, Cas?”

            There was a short pause. “Yes,” came Cas’s voice.

            “Okay. I’m coming in. You decent?”

            “Yes.”

            Dean pushed the door open. Cas was leaning heavily against the sink, pants hunched around his hips.

            Dean sighed and ran his hand over his face. He approached Cas. “Hold on a sec,” he told Cas. “I’m gonna fix your pants, okay?”

            “Okay,” Cas said softly. Dean grabbed the waist band of Cas’s pants and tried to be as swift as possible, straightening it and then pulling it upwards.

            “There,” Dean said. That wasn’t so bad, Dean thought. A little awkward, but they pushed through. “C’mon,” Dean said, hooking his arm through the crook of Cas’s elbow. “Let’s get you to bed.”

            Dean had already decided he was going to take Cas back to his room. Dean’s bed was big enough for the two of them, and Dean didn’t want to risk leaving Cas alone and the dumbass hurting himself worse than he already was. The falling off the couch incident could’ve been disastrous, and if Dean’s learned anything from his nearly forty years, it was that Winchesters didn’t have good luck.

            Cas figured it out pretty soon as they made their way down the hall. “Dean, this is your room.”

            “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

            “You don’t like sharing your room. This is your space.”

            Dean kicked the door open. “Guess I like having you not in the hospital more. Get on the bed.” Dean walked Cas to the foot of the bed and helped Cas sit down.

            Dean’s back was aching with the strain, and he once again looking forward to falling face first onto the mattress and sinking into the memory foam.

            “You comfy?” Dean asked, as he did just that. His voice was muffled by the pillow. “You want on top or under the covers?”

            “Under,” Cas said after a moment’s pause. Dean pulled the edge of the blanket towards him so Cas could lie down, and then Dean threw the blanket back over Cas.

            “Good? Need anything?”

            “You’ve done enough Dean,” Cas said.

            “Just wake me if you need something. Seriously. If I find you on the floor again, I’m kicking your ass. Got it?”

            “Yes, Dean.”

            Dean nodded, exhaustion wearing into his bones. “Good.” Dean sighed. “’Night, Cas,” he said, reaching for the lamp.

            “Good night, Dean,” Cas said, as darkness shrouded the room.

\--

            Dean woke up to a warmth pressed against his chest and something soft tickling at his nose.

            He opened his eye slowly, his vision bleary at first, but colors started taking shape and Dean soon could clearly see his rack of weapons, and desk, and then, he remembered the events of last night. Dean looked down.

            Castiel, in his sleep, had turned towards Dean and was pressed against Dean’s chest; and it was Cas’s hair that was tickling Dean’s nose that still smelled faintly of the hospital.

            Dean froze. He swallowed. He didn’t know what to do—did he push Cas away? Or did he just try to slink away?

            Dean had imagined this particular scenario many times before. But never under these circumstances. With Cas as human as the rest of them, having undergone traumas no one should ever have to go through, not even the most depraved of mankind: Lucifer, the Darkness, Cas’s own dad not sparing him half of a quarter of an iota of attention.

            Dean would take Cas in any form. He never lied about that—the fact that Cas was here, against him, so close Dean could feel Cas’s heartbeat against his own—was a miracle, and more than Dean had ever learned to expect or earned.

            But still. There was something about seeing a creature as grand and otherworldly as Castiel fall from the Heavens to the mud and dirt of humanity, and having to acknowledge that you played some part in the transformation.

            Castiel was the best thing that had ever happened to Dean, but sometimes Dean wished they hadn’t met, and that Castiel had been spared the agony of knowing Dean Winchester. Even back in his douche angel days, Cas was better than all the other angels. He didn’t deserve what Dean had done to him.

            Cas had protected the world and Winchesters time and time again. Now, it was Dean’s turn to return the favor. Dean brushed his fingers gently over the slight bald patch in Cas’s scalp where the stitches had been. He could feel the raised, jagged skin of scar tissue and Dean shuddered when he thought again of how close a call it had been.

            Cas had died before, and come back, against all odds. But Dean couldn’t expect it to always be there; couldn’t ever let any level of comfort befall him on that front. Because it didn’t matter that Cas had died and risen, didn’t matter that no matter how close Cas skirted to the precept of death only to come back. There would always be that one time it was for real, and there would be no coming back. And it could happen at any time. 

            Dean stayed still for a moment longer, and Cas began to shift. He pushed away slightly from Dean, eyes peeling open.

            “Morning Sunshine,” Dean said softly.

            “Good morning, Dean,” Cas murmured against Dean’s chest. The vibrations of his voice ran through Dean’s ribcage. “Thank you for sharing your room.”

            “Don’t mention it,” Dean said. “Seriously, it was nothing.”

            Dean didn’t mention how his body seemed to crave Castiel’s presence. How when Castiel was nearby, his heartbeat was steady instead of erratic, how knowing that Cas was nearby and safe settled the constant static in Dean’s head. Dean couldn’t believe that Castiel had become so important to him, but now it was a fact of life, as simple truth as the sky being blue, and the sun rising in the East.

            Dean shifted away from Cas slightly. “You want breakfast? I make a mean omelet, you know.”

            “That sounds pleasant.”

            “I’ll bring it to you,” Dean said, moving off the bed. “Yell if you need something.”

           

            While having his own room was definitely awesome, Dean loved the kitchen the best. Their nomadic lifestyle didn’t give way to nice, fresh, homecooked meals. And now, Dean loved scourging for the Mom n Pop diners, loved seeing continental America from the booths and watching the pretty waitresses with their pretty smiles and honey accents, nothing was better than what Dean could make on his own.

            He cracked and whipped the eggs, chopped cilantro the way the chefs on TV did, added a dash of pepper and a pinch of salt, and the kitchen was soon filled with the wondrous aroma of bacon. Not even two minutes later, Sam stalked into the kitchen, his bedhead falling into his face, still clad in his pajamas.

            “Smells good,” Sam said leaning over the counter.

            “Hey now,” Dean said. “If you’re gonna get that close, you need a hair net.”

            Sam scowled at him, but then the frown turned into a sly grin. “So, uh, where’s Cas? I checked his room and he wasn’t there.”

            Dean’s face burned. “He’s in my room,” Dean whispered.

            “Yeah?”

            “He fell asleep on the couch last night. I was gonna leave him there, but then he fell out trying to get to the toilet. I brought him back to my bed to keep an eye on him.”

            Sam’s eyes had a twinkle on them.

            “What? You know I can’t leave him alone—he’ll hurt himself. You heard the doc, he rebreaks that leg, it’s over. Plus he almost busted his head back open, and I didn’t want to be the one who had to clean up all that blood.”

            “No, I get it,” Sam said, that infuriating smile still tugging at his lips. “I just thinks it’s sweet, that’s all.”

            Dean had no words, and ended up stammering for some sort a defense before he gave up and went back to his cooking.

            “So, what are you gonna do about it?” Sam asked after a full minute of Dean cutting the bacon into pieces.

            “Do about what?”

            “The You and Cas thing.”

            “There isn’t a Me and Cas thing.”

            “Dean, I’m not blind.”

            “What are you trying to say, Sam?”

            “Uh, I’ve had to watch you and Cas make goo-goo eyes at one another for almost ten years, and I’m just about at my wit’s end. I’ve put considerable thought into locking you and Cas in a room for a few days, or as long as it takes for you to pull your head out of your ass. Don’t you remember that conversation we had about a year ago, back when the whole Amara stuff was starting to get bad? About the settling down?”

            “Woah, woah, hold on,” Dean said, throwing his utensils down onto the countertop. “You were talking about Cas?”

            “He’s perfect for you, isn’t he? I mean, he worships the ground you walk on, and he’s in the Life. He already knows that you’re a stubborn asshole and he still loves you. Everyone sees it, Dean. Me, Kevin, Charlie, the other angels. Hell, even _Crowley_ knows.”

            “Oh, so you have tea parties with the King of Hell and gossip about me, is that it?”

            “Here we go,” Sam sighed in exasperation. “Stop taking everything as an attack. I love you, Dean. I love Cas too. You’re both my brothers and I want to see you guys happy—and the only time either of you are ever remotely happy is when you’re together. You may not have noticed Dean, but you’re kind of a dick when Cas isn’t around. Well, more so than usual.”

            “Is this supposed to be some sort of acceptance speech or something?” Dean grumbled, continuing to work on making the omelets. He tried to focus all his attention onto the simple task. Cas needed taking care of, and Dean could do that.

            “Yes,” Sam said seriously, eyes narrowing. “Please, Dean, for the love of God. This thing you have with Cas? Do something with it. If this is real love…don’t waste it by pretending it’s not there. If I had a second chance with Jessica, I wouldn’t waste a second of it.”

            Then Sam was gone, his heavy, sasquatch footsteps echoing down the hall and Dean groaned, staring at the plates full of food. “That is so not fair and you know it!” Dean called.

            Sam made no response.

            Dean sighed and picked up the plates, carrying them back to his room.

            Cas was curled up on his side, thumbing through a paperback that had been left on Dean’s nightstand.

            “Bon apppetit,” Dean said, laying one plate on Cas’s lap.

            “Thank you, Dean,” Cas said, as he took the first bite.

            Dean stared at Cas.

            Could it work? Him and Cas? It’s not like Dean _hadn’t_ thought about it…but, it was always just in passing. Nothing more than a fantasy. On the long list of things that were Never Going To Happen, Ever, topped off was Dean admitting that Sam’s horrendous Rapunzel hair looked good on him. Number Two: That he could have a real, stable, romantic relationship. He already tried that once, with Lisa, and it blew up in his face.

            But....he and Lisa had never been….serious. Dean realized, years later, after he had left her and Ben, that Dean hadn’t loved her. He loved the idea of her. Of what she represented: stability and safety in the suburbs, a two-story with a yard and white picket fence. The apple pie life.

            But Dean hadn’t never been in love with her.

            Cas, though….

            Dean thought of the warmth that spread through his belly whenever he won a rare, shy, smile from Cas. The pride that shone in his eyes whenever Cas did something remotely badass, like taking on three angels all by himself. The terror that clawed at his insides whenever Cas went AWOL; the endless, sleepless nights this past year when Cas was Lucifer’s prom dress, and Dean didn’t know how or _why_ , and he spent those nights murmuring aching prayers into his tear-soaked pillow.

            Those nights spent planning on how to take down Amara, with Dean insisting that any option that didn’t save Cas was off the table; and then trying to come up with a plan that would save Cas, against the trauma Lucifer would have put upon him.

            During that long year, Dean thought Cas was going to die.

            And when Cas was thrown off that railing by the werewolf, lying motionless in that shallow ravine, water pinking, Dean thought Cas might die again.

            Dean didn’t want to live a life of what-could-have-beens.

            “Dean?” Cas said, breaking through Dean’s thoughts.

            “Hm?” Dean said. He must have been zoned out a while. He looked at Cas. Really looked at him. Humanity had already began to wear into Cas’s bones, with the dark circles under his eyes, and forming lines around his mouth.

            Cas was human now. And humans were strange, mysterious, unpredictable creatures. But there was one thing Dean knew for certain about all humans. Eventually, they all died.

            Cas was going to die one day. As was Dean.

            That was enough for Dean. He decided.

            He leant forward and gently pressed his lips against Cas’s. Cas made a small noise of surprise, but he didn’t pull away, and so Dean curled his lips against Cas’s, tasting breakfast and the barest hint of toothpaste.

            Dean broke after just a moment, but he kept his face close to Cas’s.

            “Dean?” Cas whispered.

            “Sorry,” Dean whispered. “I, uh….”

            Cas turned his face and then his lips were on Dean’s, and now _Cas_ was kissing _Dean._ Dean was taken aback, only slightly, before he was giving into it. Cas’s movements were slow and clunkly, and amateurish it; and it was probably the most chaste kiss Dean had since his mom died. But it so sweet, and innocent---there was no sexual heat to it, just pure intimacy, and then Dean felt like he was hit with a hammer of realization.

            Cas loved him.

            The thought made Dean smile, and giggle slightly, and he and Cas were soon in a back and forth of gentle pecks, with the occasional razor burn against Dean’s cheek.

            “I love you,” Dean said, between the small kisses. “Think I’ve loved you for a long time.” He couldn’t pinpoint an exact instance, but it had been a while ago, it was so deeply rooted in Dean’s heart as a fact.

            “I’ve loved you since that night in the Green Room.”

            Dean was confused. “Why that night?”

            “I admired your bravery, and determination, to defend what you thought was right. And for showing me the beauty in free will.”

            Dean scoffed at that, but didn’t say anything. Cas, though.

            “Dean, are you sure you want this?” Cas’s voice was small, like a frightened child.

            Dean pulled away like he’d been burned. “What do you mean?”

            “I mean,” Cas swallowed thickly, eyes trailing down to his heavy cast. “I’m not…I’ll never be as powerful as I was. And even as a human, I won’t be…you know what the doctor said. Even after the casts comes off, there’ll be more surgeries and rehabilitation. I won’t ever be able to run quickly, or stalk quietly, and if I can’t do that, then I can’t help you and Sam with hunts---I’ll be useless—“

            “Hey, hey,” Dean said, cupping Cas’s cheeks. “Don’t talk like that. None of that matters. You’re alive. You don’t get it….I thought you were _dead._ You were just lying there in the water, not moving, and bleeding so bad. I thought you were _dead_ , Cas. But you’re not. You’re okay.” Tears burned at Dean’s eyes. “You’re alive, and okay—sure, maybe a little banged up, but nothing that won’t heal. You’re alive. That’s all that matters, I swear. And you’re not useless! Don’t you _ever_ think that. You’re smart—fluent in every language, and the best damn strategist I’ve ever seen—and you make _me_ feel better. Doesn’t that matter?”

            “Of course it matters,” Castiel said softly, but there was still hesitance in his voice.

            “And, just ‘cause you might not be able to run or sneak around doesn’t mean you can’t help on hunts. Remember last year, when you were still recovering from Rowena’s fucking curse? You stayed behind and researched and found out what it was me and Sam were hunting. We wouldn’t have been able to solve that case without you.”

            A stray tear slipped past Cas’s eye and Dean brushed it away gently with his thumb.

            “We’ll figure something out,” Dean said. “I promise. I know you need to help, and you will. But we’ll figure all that out later. Right now, you just need to focus on healing. Okay?”

            Castiel was quiet for a moment. “Okay,” he said eventually.

            Dean smiled. “Good.”

            “Does this mean we can kiss more?”

            “Hell, yes.”


End file.
